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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25855762">Before You Go</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorhtom/pseuds/majorhtom'>majorhtom</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Going Under [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Thick of It (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Cancer, Character Death, Doctor Who References, Gen, Illnesses, Investigative Journalism, Major Illness, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Cancer, Mentions of Suicide, Night Terrors, Revelations, Runaway, Sad, Stillbirth, Suicide Notes, mentioned child death, one shots</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:32:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,060</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25855762</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorhtom/pseuds/majorhtom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes as seen from the point of view of different characters through their interactions with Malcolm Tucker and others as they navigate their lives through government incompetence and Malcolm’s somewhat serious issues.<br/>Set from Going Under to Grace and they fill some holes.</p><p>One shot 13 now up;<br/>Glenn bumps into Malcolm and his nephew in Hyde Park and they have a catch up.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Going Under [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861261</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Robyn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Robyn Googles Malcolm’s symptoms and becomes worried he could possibly have lymphoma.<br/>(Set in November 2010 during Going Under)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After Malcolm had finished chewing them out and ran off to deal with another department, Robyn turned to her computer and opened up WebMD. She typed in Malcolm’s symptoms, mainly because Malcolm had a rash and she was extremely worried about that. Like it could still be meningitis. But what came up was worse than that. </p><p>“You’re not on WebMD, are you?” Helen asked as she walked past. “It’s shit. Only hypochondriacs and drug peddlers use that site.”  </p><p>“I’m worried about Malcolm.” Robyn admitted. </p><p></p><div>
  <p>“Why?” Helen asked with a slight shrug. “He wouldn’t be doing that for you. In fact, he’d be screaming in your face about ramming a dildo up your arse if you made a mistake again.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“He passed out, Helen.” Robyn said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“He fainted.” Helen said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Robyn pointed to the screen. “It’s saying that he’s got Ebola.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“He obviously hasn’t got Ebola.” Helen said dismissively. “He might be anaemic though. He looks really pale.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Robyn continued to scroll through the list of possible diseases and stopped on lymphoma. “Do you think he has cancer?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Helen shook her head. “Nah.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Robyn closed the window and opened up her work once again. “I’d better get back to work.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Me too.” Helen said and walked away. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>However, Robyn couldn’t help but wonder. </p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
</div><div>
  <p>At lunchtime, Robyn went off with Terri as she typically did. As the weather was bad outside, they’d found an empty room to eat their sandwiches in. Okay, it was an empty cupboard, but any room that’s empty in a government building is a good thing. The radio was on in the background. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>As Terri was eating her sandwich, Robyn put hers down and addressed her concerns. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I think Malcolm Tucker has cancer.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Terri lowered her sandwich. “Where did this come from?” She asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Him passing out in Nicola’s office earlier.” Robyn said. “He was covered in blood and bruises and sweat. And he wasn’t breathing right either.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You heard what Ollie said, he’s probably just anaemic.” Terri said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, but what if he’s got a blood cancer?” Robyn asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Lymphoma-the symptoms. Bleeding, bruising, sweating, weight loss, shortness of breath-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“He hasn’t got lymphoma.” Terri said. “It’s not common. What he’s got is probably a combination of overwork and anaemia. Maybe there’s something going on at home too, like his kid’s facing racial bullying.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm has a kid?” Robyn asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well I swear I’ve seen him out of office hours holding hands with a little black girl and I know he has finger paintings on his office walls, so unless he’s suddenly in the business of child trafficking, I’d say he has a daughter.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Wow.” Robyn blinked, not knowing what to say. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I would ask my daughter about that, but they’re not the same age.” Terri said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh how is your daughter?” Robyn asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“She’s fine. Getting ready to pick her GCSE subjects and it’s stressing her out.” Terri took a bite from her sandwich. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It was all O-Levels when I was growing up.” Robyn said. “I still got good grades though.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Terri nodded. “So did I. I told her to go for the easiest subjects, but she doesn’t want to go for art.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“In fairness, art is hard.” Robyn said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“All you have to do is express yourself.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah, but you have to do it the way they want you to.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Then that’s not art.” Terri said. “Art shouldn’t be regimented. It’s not the army.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“So <em>do</em> you think Malcolm has lymphoma?” Robyn asked.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Not this again.” Terri said. “He’s anaemic. He’s fine.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“He fainted in front of us all, Terri.” Robyn said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m putting the radio up.” Terri said. “Malcolm’s fine. Don’t worry about him.” Terri leaned over and turned the radio dial up. Robyn was singing Dancing On My Own. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I can’t help but worry.” Robyn said. “He might die-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But he <em>won’t</em> die.” Terri put what was left of her sandwich in her mouth, chewed it and swallowed. “I mean he will die at some point. But he’s not dying right now.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Welcome back to Mid-Morning Matters. That was Robyn with Dancing On</em>-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” Robyn said. “Maybe I am being a bit too paranoid.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“WebMD isn’t a good site.” Terri said. “It’s mainly hypochondriacs that use it anyway.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Robyn nodded as she nibbled on her sandwich. Logically, she knew Terri was right. Still the thought that Malcolm could have lymphoma played on her mind. Mainly because the symptoms seemed to fit. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>From Robyn’s point of view.<br/>This is based on Terri and Robyn’s deleted scenes. If you haven’t seen them, you need to check them out because they are hilarious.<br/>WebMd is notorious for saying you have cancer for any little complaint. Well, what if it was right?<br/>Terri mentioned in an early episode that she had a daughter. It’s since been forgotten though.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Angela</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Angela notices Malcolm’s absence and goes looking for information.<br/>(Set in January 2011 during Going Under)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a while before Angela noticed she hadn’t heard from or even seen Malcolm Tucker. Like before Christmas. It was the early weeks of 2011 and a lot of people were starting to notice Malcolm’s absence. In fact, she had only just noticed it because she'd put on Channel 4 News and seen Jon Snow talking about the fact that nobody had seen Malcolm in a while. But Lord Nicholson had been spotted regularly at St Thomas’s Hospital. As had Director of Communications for the Tory Party Stewart Pearson, Shadow Social Affairs Secretary Peter Mannion, senior Tory Party advisor Cal Richards and the Government’s acting Director of Communications Jamie MacDonald.</p><p>Angela found it suspicious that all of them would be there. Why would five senior Whitehall officials, advisors, politicians... why would they all be at St Thomas’s hospital? She decided to do some sleuthing. And a little bit of stalking. </p><p></p><div>
  <p>So there she was, sitting on a bench outside the hospital waiting until someone either went in or came out. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Someone did come out, after a while. And that someone was Julius Nicholson. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Angela stood to her feet and approached him. “Lord Nicholson.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m Angela Heaney, from The Daily Mail.” She said. “What are you doing here?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Julius stopped abruptly, clearly not expecting to have been asked. “Oh. I’ve been visiting an old friend.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What can you tell me about Malcolm Tucker’s absence?” Angela asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I cannot discuss this with you.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Is the ‘old friend’ Malcolm Tucker?” Angela asked. “Don’t worry, this is off the record.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I-I can’t say.” Julius said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Lord Nicholson,” Angela lowered her voice, “is Malcolm sick? Or is he hurt? Just say yes or no. Nod if you want.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Julius took a deep breath and gave a small nod. “Yes.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Although Angela had been expecting that answer, she hadn’t been expecting that answer. “Alright. Thanks. For your time.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I can go?” Julius asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah.” Angela said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Julius walked away hurriedly and Angela sat back down on the bench. If Malcolm was sick, how long had he been sick for? If he was hurt, how long ago was the accident? How did nobody notice earlier? Why hadn’t there been a statement on this? Surely the PM would have given a statement saying ‘my spin doctor’s sick’ or ‘my spin doctor’s had an accident and he’s going to be in hospital for a while’. Why hadn’t this happened?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She sat there thinking about this for a while. She wasn’t sure how long, exactly, but she pulled out her iPhone to take some notes. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>Malcolm Tucker</b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>Sick? Hurt? Potentially. </b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><b>St Thomas’s Hospital.</b> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>How long? </b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>How long, Angela asked herself. She hadn’t noticed him around Whitehall for a few months, at least since October. But had he actually been gone since Halloween? She saw him at Conference in Manchester. He’d definitely been there. She’d seen him bollocking a junior minister down a corridor where he thought he wouldn’t be seen. That had definitely happened. And it had happened on the 28th September. So somewhere between then and Christmas... Malcolm had either fallen ill or had an accident. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>28 Sept-17 Dec</b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She typed out on her phone. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Angela looked up to see Tory spin doctor Stewart Pearson casually strolling into the reception area of the hospital and she stood up and followed him inside. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Inside was exactly what she expected. Sick people. Well people. Hurt people. Doctors. Nurses. Kids. Teens. Adults. The elderly. It was a hospital. She saw Stewart walk over to the reception desk and hung back a bit, pretending she was on her phone so she wouldn’t be spotted. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Angela didn’t hear everything he’d said, but she had heard clearly the name ‘Malcolm Tucker’. They were all coming in and out to see Malcolm. What could be so wrong with him that even the Official Opposition would want to come and see him in the hospital? Had he had that aneurysm? A heart attack? A stroke? Had that throbbing vein at the side of his head burst open? Whatever was up with him was not good. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>When Stewart walked away, Angela followed, continuing to keep her distance down the winding hospital corridors. Passing patients, visitors, workers and volunteers alike. She eventually lost him when he went into a lift and she couldn’t follow him in. So she went back down the corridors and into the reception. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She walked up to the reception desk and smiled at the receptionist. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hi, can you help me? I’m looking for Malcolm Tucker.” Angela said, putting on a Scottish accent. “I’m a colleague.” She lied. “Number 10 communications.” She said in a low voice.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Just because she was a journalist, she was under no obligation to tell the truth all the time. Or any of the time. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Angela was directed to the haematology unit, which confused her. What possible reason would cause Malcolm Tucker to be at the haematology unit? Maybe it was the wrong Malcolm Tucker. After all, the one she knew couldn’t be the only one. Surely it wasn’t as common a name as John Smith, but it had to be somewhat common. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She followed the signs to where she was directed and into the lift. She didn’t feel bad about lying. It was the only way she would get any answers. She stepped out of the lift and followed the signs to haematology. Which involved going thorough more corridors, passing more people.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When Angela arrived, she found the reception desk and waited there for someone by fiddling with her phone. She opened the notes app again. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>Haematology</b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>Something up with his blood? </b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>Maybe not Gov’s Malcolm? </b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>Wrong guy perhaps. </b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The receptionist eventually arrived. “Hello?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Angela locked her phone and put it in her pocket. “Hi. I’m looking for Malcolm Tucker.” She said in her same poor imitation of a Scottish accent. “I’m one of his colleagues in government.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ah. I’m going to have to see some ID.” The receptionist said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Angela inhaled deeply. Of course. That’s how nobody had found Malcolm before, besides government advisors and the Opposition. The press were being kept out. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ve... left it at Number 10. Sorry.” Angela said. “I’ll go and get it.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She turned back through the corridors and back into the lift where she pulled out her phone and typed out again. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>Right guy</b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>He’s sick with some blood thing</b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The lift doors opened and Angela put her phone back in her pocket. She walked through the corridors and back out of the hospital to call someone.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I need a favour.” She said. “I need a government ID. Number 10. Why? I’m uh... not obligated to tell you. Just do it. As soon as you fucking can.” </p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
</div><div>
  <p>It would be another four hours before Angela returned back to the hospital. Being January, it was dark outside, but still within visiting hours. She followed the signs to the haematology unit and waited by reception once again, only to find the same receptionist. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Sorry.” Angela said in her regular accent, before remembering she’d been putting on a Scottish accent. “Er-minor crisis at Number 10.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I still can’t let you in without ID.” The receptionist said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Angela took her fake ID from her pocket, the one that said that she was a communications officer at Number 10, and put it on the counter. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The receptionist picked it up and raised her eyebrow sceptically. “Okay. Fine. He’s in room 533.” She handed the fake ID over to Angela. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Angela took it silently thanking Ollie Reeder. She walked down the corridor, looking at the room numbers until she came to 533; a single, private room. She put her hand on the door handle and opened it. She was not prepared for what was inside. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>For a moment, she thought they had given her the room to the wrong Malcolm Tucker. That was until she recognised that it was the right Malcolm Tucker. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Angela inhaled sharply. What the hell had happened to him? He was bald-completely bald. He’d lost so much weight. He was so white. So many tubes and wires. This Malcolm wasn’t intimidating, this Malcolm was fragile. Gone was the brute force in government. Replaced by a bald, pale, gaunt, tiny, sleeping weakling.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh my god.” Angela muttered to herself as she put the pieces together. She gently closed the door after her and creeped into the room, trying to have the only noise coming from the hospital radio playing Marina and the Diamonds. Hollywood. The song choice was just a bit jarring for her, but neither of them had requested it in the first place. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Angela took a closer look at Malcolm and at his IVs. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>As the song changed to Club Can’t Handle Me, Angela took her phone out and googled what Cytarabine was. The results came up and...</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Shit. <em>SHIT</em>. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She backed away quickly and quietly opening the door and closing it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Breathing heavily, Angela looked back down at her phone. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>Cytarabine, also known as cytosine arabinoside (ara-C), is a chemotherapy medication used to treat acute myeloid leukemia (AML), acute lymphocytic leukemia (ALL), chronic myelogenous leukemia (CML), and non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.</b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm Tucker had cancer. A blood cancer. And it was quite possible that he was dying or that he would die.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Angela put her hand over her mouth, wondering what the hell to do. She felt more conflicted now than at any other point in her life. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Something from Angela’s point of view. AKA how she wasn’t surprised to see Malcolm Tucker looking the way he did when he went to her to admit that he was sick.<br/>Who was she phoning? Ollie, of course. Sure they’ve broken up, but she’s still shown to use him every once in a while.<br/>Visiting hours for Guys and St Thomas’s (now suspended because of COVID-19) was until 8pm. In January it goes dark around 4pm. So Angela is visiting between 4 and 8pm.<br/>Hollywood and Club Can’t Handle Me were popular songs in 2010. Sure it’s 2011 when this is set, but it’s early 2011, so popular songs from 2010 will still be around.<br/>What Angela read on her phone about Malcolm’s Chemo drugs is indeed the first sentence that comes up when you google it on Wikipedia.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Linda</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jamie’s died and his wife is forced to pick up the pieces.<br/>(Set in August 2011 during Going Under)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Linda watched as her husband lay in the hospital bed dying. She knew he was dying. He’d had a massive bleed on his brain and had been declared brain dead. He wasn’t so much dying as he was already dead. And with a spinal cord injury at the neck, Jamie wouldn’t have had a good quality of life. Maybe another tetraplegic person would, but not Jamie. </p><p>Linda held his hand and stroked it, even though he wouldn’t feel it. He wouldn’t know anyway. She looked over at Malcolm, who was shaking like a leaf. He was scared and he was upset and he was still very sick himself. He was holding Jamie’s other hand and he had his long, thin fingers in what was left of Jamie’s hair. </p><p>The heart monitor let out a droning beep; Jamie was dead. Her husband was dead. The only person who knew <em>exactly</em> who she was-<em>what </em>she was-and accepted her unconditionally... was dead. </p><p></p><div>
  <p>Malcolm stayed almost glued to the spot, unable to move, while Linda broke down crying. Malcolm held around her as she cried, unable to watch as her husband was taken away to the morgue. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Linda, it’s okay.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You don’t believe that.” Linda said between breaths as she cried. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No. I don’t.” Malcolm admitted. “I miss Jamie.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“The kids!” Linda exclaimed. She pushed herself away from Malcolm and rubbed her eyes. “What about the kids?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I don’t know.” Malcolm said. “But I know you’ll manage.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Linda shook her head. “No. Malcolm, I can’t. Jamie’s my soulmate. <em>Was</em> my soulmate.” She wiped her eyes. “He left the priesthood for me.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Aye.” Malcolm nodded. “I know.” He walked over to the wall, leaning on it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Linda sat down in a chair, sobbing into her hands. She didn’t know what do say or do. She just knew what Jamie, her Jamie, was gone forever. She was supposed to grow old with him. He was supposed to see his children grow up. Sophie would never know her father. Kirsty would hardly remember him. Josh and Lewis would be forever scarred by the car accident that left them physically unscathed. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Linda was distracted from her thoughts by a thumping sound that repeated itself. She lifted her head to find that it was Malcolm, using what little strength he had to punch the wall over and over again. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She jumped up from her chair and physically tried to restrain him, which was harder than it looked considering he was a weak cancer patient. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm, please stop.” She pleaded. “Jamie wouldn’t want this-he wouldn’t want you to be self harming because that’s what you’re doing.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm punched the wall again. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Linda had noticed by now Malcolm’s fist was bloody, swollen and deformed-some bones were clearly broken but Malcolm had not noticed. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm!” Linda grabbed him with both of her hands. “Stop this madness! Please!” Tears were still falling down her cheeks. “Think of Jamie.” She said quietly. “He wouldn’t want this.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm lowered his hand and nodded. “Yeah.” He said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Linda held around him tightly. She could feel his breathing was irregular the way his chest fell and rose against hers. Then she let go. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm fell down to the floor. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Linda nearly followed; her knees were weak and she was shaking. Her whole world was collapsing around her. She had her children-she had to <em>tell</em> her children. She’d just watched her husband <em>die</em>. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh god.” She staggered backwards under the weight of all the hurt.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm let out an almighty scream full of pain and anguish and everything Linda was feeling. He seemed to notice the way his hand looked when he tried to wipe away his tears. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Your hand’s broken, Malcolm.” Linda said. “I’ll take you down to A&amp;E now.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm said nothing. He simply nodded. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I need you to stand up.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm, again, said nothing. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Linda helped Malcolm off the floor, the two of them desperately trying to suppress the fact that they were both crying. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Keep your hand up.” Linda said. “It’ll keep the swelling down.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm slumped down in his wheelchair without saying a word. He just wiped his eye with his sleeve. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It unnerved Linda to see Malcolm so quiet. She’d always known him to be loud and boisterous and talkative. He always had an answer for everything. Except for when he lost his wife. His parents. His job. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She looked at Malcolm and was incredibly surprised to realise that he was bald. But it hit her that she’d forgotten that he had cancer. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“This is a fucking nightmare.” She said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm said nothing, but continued to cry silently and almost holding his breath. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm,” Linda took a deep breath, “this is important.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm lifted his head to loo up at Linda.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I might lose my kids because Jamie’s...”  Linda trailed off and exhaled shakily. “I’m a Traveller.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm cocked his head slightly. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“My kids don’t know. The hospital doesn’t know. So I need you to help me.” Linda wiped her eyes again. “Oh god.” She muttered. “Please, help me keep my kids.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm nodded, but said nothing. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Linda carefully wiped the tears from Malcolm’s cheek. “We will get through this if we help each other.” She said. “And we will <em>never</em> forget Jamie.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It felt horrible for Linda having to refer to her husband in the past tense. It hadn’t truly sunk in yet that she was a widow. But of her friends, of all the people she knew, Malcolm Tucker was the only other who knew what it felt to lose a spouse. True, Linda had lost her husband suddenly, while Malcolm had lost his wife slowly to cancer, but both Jamie and Elaine were dead. </p>
  <p>In that moment, Malcolm and Linda were the only ones who understood each other. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I made this as an extended version of Jamie’s death scene, this time not focusing on Malcolm’s reaction, but on Jamie’s wife’s reaction.<br/>There’s not much to say here.  <br/>Why did I make Linda a Traveller? Because my father’s family are Travellers and they’re ashamed of it. So they never told me. It’s weird growing up believing you’re one thing when you’re actually something else.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Terri</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Terri accidentally pushes Malcolm down the stairs as he’s busy preparing for a snap general election.<br/>(Set around April 2013)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It all happened so quickly that Terri didn’t even realise what had happened. She’d been coming up the stairs while Malcolm had been going down and looking on his phone. At the top of the stairs, something had happened that left Malcolm at the bottom. </p><p></p><div>
  <p>“Oh my god!” Ollie exclaimed. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Terri turned around to see Malcolm lying at the bottom of the stairs. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Jesus Christ!” Terri blurted out and ran down the stairs as quickly as she could. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm, however, pulled himself up off the floor, albeit shakily. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Don’t get up-what if you’ve broken something?” Ollie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m fine, Ollie. I haven’t broken anything.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Why are you wearing a bandage on your arm if you haven’t broken anything?” Terri asked, finally reaching the bottom of the stairs. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Why am I-obviously I had this on before you knocked me down the fucking stairs, yeah?” Malcolm snapped. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well, I’m sorry. I was only asking.” Terri said. She bent down to pick up Malcolm’s mobile phone, but when she looked at it, she realised that it was smashed. Broken. “Uh oh.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Uh oh?” Malcolm repeated. “The fuck do you mean <em>uh oh</em>?” He asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Terri awkwardly handed Malcolm his phone, preparing for a bollocking. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm snatched the phone off her and tried to turn it on. “It’s broken!” He shouted. “My fucking phone is fucking broken! Do you know how many fucking... fucking contacts I had on there?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Terri put her hand on Malcolm’s arm in an odd attempt to calm him. “I’m sure we can-“ </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“We can’t do anything, Terri! We’re fucking-there’s going to be a snap general election!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Another one?” Terri asked. She hadn’t heard about this. But she was acutely aware that Labour wasn’t polling so well these days, though public approval was still up for Malcolm since he’d survived cancer. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes! Another one!” Malcolm spluttered. “This is a democracy, not a fucking dictatorship!“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm, you’ve gone a bit crazy now.” Ollie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ve gone crazy?” Malcolm repeated. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Terri backed away slightly. She’d known Malcolm for long enough to know that he was about to lose his shit. Not because of anger, but because of fear and stress and frustration. Those outbursts were arguably worse than the angry outbursts because when he was angry with you, you expected him to swear at you and make threats to flay your skin off and eat it as bacon or whatever. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And then the outburst happened. Malcolm screaming in her face. Ollie’s face. Everyone passing by staring, people coming from their workstations and offices to look down at Malcolm screaming in the middle of the atrium. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Terri felt like crying only she held it all together because she simply had to. But if she started crying she would at least elicit Malcolm’s pity. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm eventually tired himself out from shouting and sat down on the bottom steps. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Tom’s going to murder me.” He said quietly. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But it was an accident.” Ollie said. “You fell down the stairs.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“My phone is broken.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah, your phone, not your bones.” Ollie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Terri stepped in. “Ollie, stop it.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I sprained my wrist the other day.” Malcolm said. “I’m getting old, Ollie. The time will come for you too.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Are you okay?” Terri asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah. No. I don’t know.” Malcolm said with a shrug.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well, I’m really sorry for accidentally pushing you down the stairs-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Don’t you fucking apologise, Terri.” Malcolm said. “It were an accident.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Right, well do you need anything, Malcolm?” Ollie asked. “Or am I free to go back to DoSAC?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“An ice pack would be great.” Malcolm said. “Think I’ve hurt my back. And my knee. Better make that two ice packs.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Do you need any help?” Terri asked as Ollie ran off to get the ice packs. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I need a new phone.” Malcolm said. “I’m never going to get all those contacts back. Might as well just kill myself right now. I could do it Terri. I could climb to the top floor and just throw myself down.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But you won’t do that.” Terri said. “Just think about your daughter-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm’s expression changed in an instant. “Who the <em>fuck</em> told you about my daughter?!” He snarled. “How did you know?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I-I’ve seen... I’ve seen you with a-a young girl. And you have child’s paintings.” Terri stuttered, really at a loss for words. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That’s my <em>niece</em>.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh.” Terri nodded. “But you just admitted to having a daughter.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I don’t have a daughter.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Is she with her mother?” Terri asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm leaned back on the stairs. “You could say that.” He said wistfully. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Terri sat down on the stairs next to Malcolm. “It’s okay, you know. To talk about it. I know you don’t wear a wedding ring anymore-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“My wife’s dead, Terri.” Malcolm put his heads in his hands in a way that expressed that he just didn’t care anymore. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh I assumed you’d got divorced.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You assumed wrong.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Terri sat next to Malcolm in relative silence as she pondered what that meant for Malcolm’s daughter. Then it hit her. “She’s dead. Isn’t she?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Who?” Malcolm asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Your daughter.” Terri said. “She’s dead.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm said nothing. He didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t deny it either. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m... so sorry, Malcolm.” Terri said. She honestly was. She didn’t know what she’d do if that were her daughter. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Don’t go spreading it. It’s the last thing I need.” Malcolm said, seemingly confirming that yes, he did indeed have a dead child.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Terri put her hand on Malcolm’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. While he looked at her oddly, he never brushed her hand away.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ollie came running back with two ice packs. “Malcolm! I got you ice packs for your back-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I don’t care.” Malcolm said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What’s going on here, then?” Ollie asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Nothing, Ollie.” Terri said. “Malcolm’s just feeling down because he lost all his important data and mobile numbers. And I was just telling him that I’m sure we’ll be able to sort something out.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“As much as I admire your optimism, Terri,” Malcolm stood up from the stairs, “I’m just going to have to face the music at Number 10.” He pocketed his mangled phone and snatched the ice packs from Ollie’s hand. “Later.” He said as he limped away. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Can you believe that guy?” Ollie asked incredulously. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Terri, on the other hand, had gained a weird new insight into the life of Malcolm Tucker. He was lonely. And sad. And his kid was dead. It was no wonder he was the way he was. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>From Terri’s point of view.<br/>There isn’t anything I can say about this one. It just is.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Stewart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>While on his phone, word reaches Stewart Pearson about Malcolm Tucker’s arrest.<br/>(Set around May 2014)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<em>Stewart, did you hear?</em>” Peter asked down the phone. </p><p>“Hear what?” Stewart asked. He was busy working on his latest masterpiece on his whiteboard; a convoluted mess of diagrams showing whether the Tories should adopt a tough on ‘benefit scroungers’ policy. He almost felt bad for the people on benefits as he totted up the ‘for’ and ‘against’ reasons. </p><p>“<em>It’s Malcolm Tucker. He’s been arrested</em>.” Peter replied. </p><p>“You’re joking.” Stewart swapped his phone in his hands. “Why? What for?” </p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>“<em>Perjury, essentially. Lying about the Iraq War.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Wasn’t the inquiry into Alastair Campbell though?” Stewart asked. “And his claiming there were WMDs in Iraq when there wasn’t.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Yes well it seems Alastair Campbell provided evidence to the Chilcot Inquiry that Malcolm Tucker was the one who physically doctored the Dodgy Dossier-you can read it yourself. It’s all over the Internet</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“He’s innocent.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>He’s fucking guilty, Stewart.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I don’t believe that he could have-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>There’s photographic evidence of him doing it-he’s going away to the Big House</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Stewart pulled his phone away from his ear and hung up. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He’d grown remarkably close to his opposite number since he’d fallen ill with Leukaemia four years ago. He didn’t think that he could be friends with a high level Labour Party official, but here he was friends with <em>the</em> Malcolm Tucker. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Stewart sat down on his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up his forehead. He straightened his glasses as he looked at his phone and scrolled through the news apps all of them reading the same top headline about Malcolm Tucker’s arrest. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Cal Richards was also friends with Malcolm. Did he know? Did Cal know? He had to know if it was all over the news. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Any moment now, Stewart expected that he would be called up for a reaction quote. After all, he was Malcolm’s opposite number. But until then, he would continue working on his whiteboard. </p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
</div><div>
  <p>Around an hour later, Stewart’s phone started ringing. He took it from his pocket thinking it was either a journalist or a member of his Party wanting something from him, so he was surprised to find it was Malcolm’s number calling him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Is it true?” He asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Uh... yeah, I’ve been arrested. I’m free to go</em>.” Malcolm said. “<em>I’m on my way home now</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And you thought you’d call <em>me</em>?” Stewart asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>I can’t talk to anyone in my Party</em>.” Malcolm said. “<em>Actually...</em>” He trailed off.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm? Are you okay?” Stewart asked, sitting down in his chair. “Has your cancer come back? Are you dying?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Thanks for your concern, but I’m not dying</em>.” Malcolm said. “<em>But I am leaving politics</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’re leaving politics?!” Stewart said in surprise. “But you’ve been in politics longer than I have-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>And now I’m leaving.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Stewart looked over at his whiteboard. “So who’s going to take your place?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Ja</em>-“ A sigh. “<em>Fuck if I know.</em>” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Were you going to say ‘Jamie MacDonald?” Stewart asked. “He’s been dead for the past three years, Malcolm.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Yeah, I... I know that</em>.” Malcolm said. “<em>I know that</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I miss him too you know, Malc-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>BULLSHIT</em>!” Malcolm roared. “<em>You do not fucking miss him-you didn’t fucking <b>know</b> him!</em>”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Rather than fan the flames, Stewart decided to try and calm things down. “Look, I have this brand spanking new concept for a new policy and it is going to be amazeballs, right-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Who the fuck says ‘amazeballs’, Stewart, it’s 2014, not 2009</em>.” Malcolm said calmly, almost sadly.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“The Oxford Dictionary-it was added as a new word-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>I don’t fucking care</em>.” Malcolm sighed. “<em>And I don’t care about your policy either. My career is over. My life is over. I’m just going to, I don’t know, hang myself.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Stewart was shocked with Malcolm’s frank admission, especially given that there was no ‘relax, I’m only joking’ remark following. “Suicide is a sin, Malcolm.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Don’t get all fundie with me, you Tory cunt.</em>” Malcolm snapped. “<em>My family, they’re all dead. The best friend I ever had is dead. My career is dead. I might as well be dead with them</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Goodbye, Stewart.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm!” Stewart shouted desperately to no answer. Malcolm had already hung up the phone. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh dear lord.” He put his head in his hand. What if Malcolm was <em>serious</em> about committing  suicide? He had to stop it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Stewart leaped to his feet, grabbed his coat and put it on as he ran out of the offices of Number 10, ready to stop his friend from making what would be the greatest mistake of his life. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just a little something from Stewart’s point of view. I actually kind of liked him. He wasn’t so bad in the end. For a Tory, that is.<br/>The Chilcot Inquiry results came out in 2016, but I bent it to 2014 because I could. In real life, it went on from 2009-2016. And yeah, it did find that there were no WMDs in Iraq.<br/>The Oxford Dictionary did add ‘Amazeballs’ to its online dictionary in 2014, the same time it added such other classic modern words as ‘listicle’, ‘catfish’, ‘SMH’, ‘humblebrag’, ‘dox’, ‘vape’, ‘YOLO’ and ‘mansplain’.<br/>No, Malcolm obviously didn’t commit suicide. But was he going to?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Ollie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ollie has some important news that he has to to share with Malcolm.<br/>(Set near Christmas 2014)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ollie stood outside Malcolm’s hospital room, debating whether to open the door and visit him or not. He had some very important news and he wanted Malcolm to hear it from him first. </p><p></p><div>
  <p>As Ollie stood there debating with himself, he could hear Slade’s Merry X-Mas Everybody muffled on the tinny hospital radio that was coming from Malcolm’s room. Ollie knew Malcolm didn’t much care for Christmas music. Or the season at all. He knew that one of Malcolm’s previous partners, Kate, had left him in 2009 at Christmas. And he had another girlfriend, a fellow cancer patient named Sarah, who left him. At Christmas. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ollie bit his lip and opened the door anyway. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm looked terrible. Way worse than Ollie had expected. He was nothing more than skin and bone and that skin was white. Very white. Save for the bruises and the dark circles under his eyes. Despite the fact that he looked emaciated, he also looked really swollen, particularly his face. He was totally bald. And there were tubes and wires coming from everywhere. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ollie hadn’t seen anything like that before. So Ollie stared. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What the fuck are you doing here?” Malcolm asked, trying, and failing, to shift his position in bed. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I came to see you.” Ollie replied. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Nonono. You caused enough damage at the... the Leveson thing. Chilcot thing.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“The inquiry.” Ollie supplied helpfully. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm nodded. “Yeah.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Bloody hell. You look terrible.” Ollie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Chemo.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah, I can see that.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Sit down then.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ollie nodded and sat down at the end of Malcolm’s bed. “Is this what it looked like the first time?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You saw what I looked like the first time.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Only after you went back to DoSAC.” Ollie pointed out. “I didn’t exactly see you when you were in the hospital.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You want to know what everything is, don’t you?” Malcolm asked. “Chemo. Chemo. Saline. Morphine. Tube feed. Oxygen mask. Central line. Feeding tube.” He said casually, pointing at each item in turn. “I know you’re here for a reason.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ollie nodded, trying not to stare as he wondered how he could break the news to Malcolm. “I‘ve... Malcolm, I’ve been promoted.” He said. “I’m the Labour Party spin doctor. I’ve got your old job.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm simply nodded. “Fine. Yeah.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’re not angry?” Ollie asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Fuck no. I’m on too much morphine for that.” Malcolm tried to pull himself into at least a sitting position. “And I quit government anyway-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You were trialled for perjury.” Ollie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I resigned.” Malcolm said firmly. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’re going to jail.” Ollie said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ve had probation.” Malcolm said. “I have excellent lawyers. Almost as good as Andy Coulson’s. Because they’re better.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ollie frowned slightly. That hadn’t really made any sense. Then again, Malcolm was propped up by pillows in a hospital bed, nearly completely bald with tubes and wires sticking out of everywhere and having cancer killing drugs pumped into him. And he was also on very strong painkillers. Not everything he said was going to make sense. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Are you dying, Malcolm?” He asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Fuck. I hope not.” Malcolm said. “I beat it last time, I’m sure I can beat it this time too. Well... the cancer drugs did most of the work. I just lay on my fucking back.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What’s it-what’s it like having cancer?” Ollie asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I hope you never find out.” Malcolm replied. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ollie picked up one of Malcolm’s Get Well cards and looked at it. “Helen. Is that Helen Hatley? What on Earth is she doing sending you a Get Well Soon card with Winnie The Pooh on it?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I like Pooh Bear.” Malcolm said. “I grew up on that upper class fuckwit Christopher Robin and all those teddy bears of his.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I didn’t know you were secretly soft inside.” Ollie said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Don’t spread it around Whitehall.” Malcolm said. “I know I’m not there anymore, but I don’t want people who knew me there to think of me like that.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Right now they’re all shocked by what’s happened this year.” Ollie said. “The Chilcot Inquiry, Alastair Campbell throwing you under a bus-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Wishing he’d done that literally.” Malcolm quipped.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You resigning, you getting arrested, you getting sentenced but it turning out that your cancer’s returned-you know lots of people in Whitehall didn’t believe that. They thought you were faking it as a Get Out Of Jail Free card.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That’s what <em>you</em> thought too, isn’t it?” Malcolm asked</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That’s why you’re here.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No. No that is not why...” Ollie looked at Malcolm whose brow was raised. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m not dying, Ollie. And if I did die, I wouldn’t expect to see you at my funeral.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Of course not.” Ollie said. “You’d be dead-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Don’t be smart with me.” Malcolm said. He winced in pain. “I think you’d better leave.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ollie stood up. “Malcolm-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And don’t come back if you know what’s good for you.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ollie nodded and walked over to the door. “I suppose this is-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm grimaced in pain. “No sappy speeches. Just get out.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ollie walked out of the door and closed it behind him. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>From Ollie’s point of view.<br/>This is the last time Ollie and Malcolm see each other. Not that they know it here.<br/>Andy Coulson is the former Tory spin doctor who perjured himself in the Leveson Inquiry after saying ‘no, I didn’t illegally hack any phones and even more illegally distribute that data’ and lo and behold, he did. It’s actually what the fate of Malcolm Tucker is based on. That and Alastair Campbell’s. Only Campbell was totally exonerated while Coulson was only mostly exonerated-he got off most charges and spent a grand total of either four or five months in jail. Which is disgraceful.<br/>Winnie the Pooh is a British institution, yeah. Everyone here’s grown up on Pooh Bear in some form or other. Though I can’t deny that Paddington was actually a bigger part of my childhood.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Julius</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Julius visits Malcolm in the hospital after his cancer returned to keep him company.<br/>(Set around February 2015)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Julius had learned to keep his distance from Malcolm while eating after Malcolm had vomited over his expensive suit that he then had to have dry cleaned. That was also how he learned to not go near him wearing expensive clothing.</p><p>Most of the time, he simply sat in the corner reading a book aloud while Malcolm either slept in his bed or said nothing. But he seemed appreciative of the company. </p><p>Learning that Malcolm’s cancer had returned had been a huge shock to Julius as Malcolm had seemed well up until that point. There had been no passing out. No terrible nosebleeds. No forgetfulness. None of the same signs as before. And yet it was back, still. </p><p>As he had since Malcolm fell ill, Julius knocked on the door of Malcolm’s hospital room and took a small step inside. “Knock knock. Hello, Malcolm.” He said with a small smile, trying to keep the mood upbeat.</p><p>Malcolm looked so small and weak and the fact that he was pale and thin and bald didn’t help matters. And though he was thin, his face was puffy from the medication and the steroids. </p><p></p><div>
  <p>“I am in pain.” Malcolm said. “There’s no need for you to be happy about it.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m not happy about it.” Julius said. “But I thought we could finish reading Jane Eyre-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm grunted. “I don’t give a fuck. I’m supposed to be in jail anyway.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Julius walked into the room and closed the door behind him “It was very unfair what Alastair Campbell did to you, I will admit, but you have committed <em>many</em> crimes-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm scoffed. “Like <em>you</em> haven’t.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I haven’t committed perjury-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Neither did I!” Malcolm objected. “On that occasion.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Julius was unsure of what to say to that. He was well aware that Malcolm had been called to inquiries before the Chilcot Inquiry and that he had actually committed perjury in the Leveson Inquiry, though he hadn’t been caught then. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It’s not my fault that you didn’t get caught earlier.” Julius said.</p>
  <p>“I’ve never committed war crimes.” Malcolm said. “That was Alastair.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>”I said I’m sorry, but it’s not my fault-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It <em>is</em> your fault. In fact <em>everything's</em> your fault.” Malcolm said aggressively.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Not everything is my fault.” Julius said. “I understand that you are the master of the media-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Nonono-<em>you</em> are the master of the media.” Malcolm said. “<em>I</em> am the doctor, the spin doctor.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Not anymore, you’re not.” Julius sat down in the chair opposite Malcolm’s bed. “Right now, you’re lying in a hospital bed fighting cancer while you’re on probation after perjuring at the Chilcot Inquiry and, may I remind you, you are <em>jobless</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Why are you here then?” Malcolm asked, pushing himself up on the bed slightly with his elbows.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Julius thought of how he could answer that question. Why had he spent the last few months visiting Malcolm in the hospital? Why had he done it before? Why had he stuck up for Malcolm at the Chilcot Inquiry and the subsequent trial? Why was he there now when they were no longer work colleagues and only had their support of the Labour Party in common?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Because I like you.” He said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You like me?” Malcolm asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, I like you.” Julius said. “I know that when people see you, they’re are afraid of you, that you’ll shout in their faces with your saliva spraying everywhere-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Really good mental image there, Julius.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But you don’t scare me because I know what you are and you, Malcolm Tucker, are not a bully.” Julius said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What am I then if I’m not a bully?” Malcolm asked challengingly. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Lost.” Julius said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm said nothing. </p>
  <p></p>
  <div>
    <p>Julius opened the book, removed the bookmark and began to read, watching Malcolm resting back on the bed. It wasn’t a perfect arrangement. But Julius was more than happy to help keep Malcolm distracted for a small amount of time every few days. Because, after all, he liked Malcolm. </p>
  </div>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A little something small from Julius’ point of view.<br/>There’s not much to say except yes, the whole ‘doctor/master’ thing is indeed a reference to the fact that Peter Capaldi played the Doctor and Alex Macqueen played the Master.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Keir</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Keir has another sleepless night when he overhears screaming.<br/>(Set in May 2016)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Keir’s eyes snapped open and he checked the time on his clock. 03:42. It was pitch black with the only light coming from his clock and the standby light on his telly and the only sounds coming from the pounding rain on his window, the wind gusts and the screaming coming from down the hall. </p><p>It was to be yet another sleepless night. The third one this week. He sat up in his bed, swung his legs over the side and stayed there, waiting for the screaming to stop. It eventually did, always. It was just a matter of how long it would take. </p><p>There Keir sat, knowing that when his Uncle Malcolm came back from the hospital, he didn’t come back <em>right</em>. He came back just a little bit... wrong. A little bit... <em>broken</em>. And that’s when the screaming started. The cries of ‘No, Tony, no!’, ‘oh god, Jamie!’ and ‘Mam, don’t leave me!’. Not always the same screams, but generally they involved Tony, Jamie, Mam, J B, Ian, Da, Maisie, Tom, Nicola, Steve, Moira and a few others. </p><p>His mother and father explained to him that Uncle Malcolm was having nightmares and to never go into his room when that was happening. Keir, however, always got the feeling that whatever was going on with Uncle Malcolm was a lot more than simply ‘nightmares’. He’d walked past his parents’ room after one of Uncle Malcolm’s nightmares and seen his mother crying. And another time he went into the kitchen for a glass of water and found his father on the phone to a 24 hour mental health helpline. </p><p>In fact, having done his own research on Google, Keir thought that his Uncle Malcolm was having flashbacks. But flashbacks to what? </p><p>Keir knew about the time his Uncle Malcolm has broken his leg as a child. He’d been told that story when he broke his own ankle last year playing football. </p><p>He knew about the time his Uncle Malcolm had dislocated his knee. He’d been told that story, along with Ellie, when Uncle Malcolm was telling them the dangers of drinking too much alcohol on a night out. </p><p></p><div>
  <p>He knew about the time his Uncle Malcolm had broken his back and spent three months lying in bed in a cast. He’d been told that because Uncle Malcolm thought it made for a funny story, though Keir never saw the funny side himself. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And he remembered the time Uncle Malcolm came home from his cancer appointment with a broken hand. He’d been sent out of the house by his mother and spent a full week with his aunt and cousins. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He knew that flashbacks came from trauma, but none of those events seemed traumatic to him. He also knew that he could be wrong about the flashbacks, after all, he was only an eleven year old boy who used Google and not a psychiatrist who’d trained for years in his field. And he had a test in the morning. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Keir looked over at his clock again. 03:51. He stood up. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Where are you going?” Ellie asked in a low voice. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Toilet.” Keir lied. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I know you don’t need to go to the toilet.” Ellie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And I don’t need your permission to go to the toilet.” Keir said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“This is my bedroom too!” Ellie hissed. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Shh! You’ll wake Mam-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Mam’s already awake.” Ellie said in a normal volume. “She heard Uncle Malcolm’s screaming.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“How do you know that?” Keir asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m sure the neighbours heard it.” Ellie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What’s the screaming about?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ellie shrugged. “Dunno.” She said. “But you know the names he says?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah.” Keir said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“They’re people he used to work for.” Ellie said. “Tony is former Prime Minister Tony Blair. Tom is former Prime Minister Tom Davis. And JB is the current Prime Minister.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What about uh... Nicola? A-and Steve? And Jamie?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well I know Jamie was Uncle Malcolm’s best friend who died. Jamie MacDonald. He was in a car crash and died.“ </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And our Granma and Granda are both dead. And our Uncle Ian is dead. And our cousin Maisie is dead...” Keir paused. “Is Uncle Malcolm having nightmares about being dead?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“He can’t be.” Ellie said. “Tony Blair, Tom Davis and JB are still alive. I’ve also heard Uncle Malcolm calling out for our Mam and Da. And they’re definitely alive.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well, didn’t he have cancer twice?” Keir asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“He’s better now though.” Ellie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But he nearly died.” Keir said. He looked over at the clock. 03:58. “What if he can see ghosts now or something?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“The ghosts of our dead grandparents?” Ellie asked sceptically. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well... you don’t know.” Keir walked over to the door and opened it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He walked across the landing and to the bathroom where the turned the light on. He looked at himself in the mirror and pulled a few silly faces that amused him. He knew people would be up and awake because of Uncle Malcolm’s screaming. So to avoid raising suspicion, he flushed the toilet and turned on the tap. He waited around fifteen seconds (maybe more, maybe less, he wasn’t exactly counting) before exiting the bathroom and turning the light off. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What are you doing up?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Mam?” Keir asked. It was still dark outside and there were no lights on inside, so it was hard to make out who was who just by their silhouette. That said, Keir was the only little boy, Ellie was the only teenage girl, Moira was the only grown woman and Dan was somewhere in Canada. Vancouver, maybe? </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You should be in bed.” Moira said. “It’s four in the morning. You’ve got to be up in three hours for school-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Moira was cut off by Malcolm’s terrified screams. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>NOOO! JAMIE</em>!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Go on. To bed.” Moira said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>JAMIE</em>!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You heard me.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Keir flinched as his Uncle Malcolm began sobbing and tried his best to ignore it as he crossed the landing to his and Ellie’s shared bedroom. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Inside their room, Keir checked the time again. 04:06. He crawled into bed and stared at the dark ceiling, unable and unwilling to sleep. He knew Ellie felt the same. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Can’t sleep?” Ellie asked.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No.” Keir answered. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Fucking hell, Moira, I’m fine</em>!” Malcolm’s voice came bleeding through the walls in a way that said that he was very much <em>not </em>fine. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Me either.” Ellie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>“Malcolm, I’m just asking you to drink some water-</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>No, I’m fine. Water isn’t a fucking cure all-“</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Does life have a meaning?” Keir asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>“I’m fine! Moira just FUCK OFF!” </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I don’t think so.” Ellie replied. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>A loud crashing noise came from Malcolm’s bedroom and it sounded like something had hit the wall. Then came a smash. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>That’s how fucking fine I am, Moira. I’m peachy!” </em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>“There’s no need to be throwing glass tumblers, Malcolm. Now I have to clean that-“</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>“I’m fucking going out.”</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The door to Malcolm’s bedroom opened and angry footsteps stormed across the landing. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>“Malcolm, please don’t be like this-“</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>“Like <b>what</b>? I’m not doing anything!” </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>“You’ll wake the kids-“</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>“Oh I’m sorry, mustn’t wake them, must I?!” </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The footsteps carried on down the stairs. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Malcolm, come on</em>!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Fuck this shit.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The front door opened and then slammed shut. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>A pause and the front door opened again. <em>“Malcolm!” </em>Then the door slammed shut again. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well... night.” Ellie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah. Night.” Keir sighed. He stayed staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Until the sun started coming through the gaps in the curtains. He turned and looked at the clock. 05:12.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The more he could see the sun, the less he felt like sleeping. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Until finally, the front door opened again and Keir could hear mumbling. Then the front door closing, much more gentler than it had done earlier. Keir checked the clock again. 06:33. Two and a half hours they’d been gone this time. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Two sets of footsteps creeped up the stairs. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Seriously, you have to stop doing this. Do you want me to have you sectioned?” </em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>Keir sighed and sat up in bed again. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Time to get dressed for school.” Ellie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Did you sleep?” Keir asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No.” Ellie said. “You?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No.” Keir answered truthfully. “I’m going to mess up my test, aren’t I?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You won’t.” Ellie said. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Keir nodded and yawned. He was tired. But he was also unable to understand why his mother and father let his Uncle Malcolm continue to suffer at night and say and do nothing about it. He wasn’t going to let himself fail his test because of that. He would try his best. And put Uncle Malcolm to the back of his mind. Long division came first. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Something from Malcolm’s nephew’s point of view.<br/>Although Keir is ten, his parents are still trying to protect him from the reality of what Malcolm’s going through by not telling him or his sister anything. While he’s having a serious mental health episode.<br/>And I wanted to show that though Malcolm’s night terrors is a regular occurrence, it’s never any easier. Especially on the kids who aren’t being told anything, but know for sure that something’s wrong.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Moira</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Malcolm has been taken ill. And his sister’s found his suicide note.<br/>(Set around July 2016)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Moira was sitting in the living room of her brother’s house with her head in her hands. Her children were both in school. Her husband was working a route to Orlando. And she was alone after watching her brother be rushed to hospital with breathing difficulties and near total paralysis that the paramedic thought it could have been a reaction to the stem cells that she had donated to him. Okay, he didn’t say that. But he said something in a way that Moira thought implied it and if that was the case, then it would be all her fault.</p><p>She kept her eye on her phone, knowing that it could light up at any moment. But she didn’t know who the first to contact her would be. It could be the hospital saying that Malcolm had died. Or it could be Ellie or Keir asking to be picked up. Or it could be work asking ‘where the hell have you been all day?’</p><p>Sure enough, her phone lit up and buzzed loudly on the coffee table. Moira daren’t look at the caller as she picked it up and answered it. </p><p>“Hello?” She asked, voice shaking. </p><p></p><div>
  <p>“<em>Moira</em>?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>That was a voice that she knew. It was one of her brother’s friends. Someone she’d had a chance to get close to too in all the years she’d lived with Malcolm. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Linda?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>I heard Malcolm’s in the hospital again; is he okay</em>?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah. Yeah, he’s... no.” Moira paused. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on anymore, I’ll be honest. Wait, how do you know-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>I’m on shift right now.</em>” Linda admitted. “<em>I’m not supposed to but I thought I’d make a cheeky phone call to check on you</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And nosey on my brother?” Moira asked. “What if he’s dead, Linda?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>He’s not dead</em>.” Linda said. “<em>I haven’t heard anything about him being dead</em>-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“This might be my fault though.” Moira said. “What if it’s his body rejecting the stem cell transplant-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>I-I couldn’t say, I’m not a transplant</em>-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And I know his mental health is bad, I’ve read the suicide note-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Wait, he’s written a suicide note</em>?” Linda asked. “<em><b>Malcolm Tucker</b></em> <em>has written a</em> <em><b>suicide note</b></em>?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I hear him screaming at night and I know the kids do too.” Moira said. “But none of us say anything. He zones out. None of us say anything. He gets angry-angrier than usual, but none of us say anything. Something’s happening to him though, I know it.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>He <b>has</b> been though a really traumatic time, Moira</em>.” Linda said. “<em>He’s stared death in the face at least three times</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m just worried about him.” Moira said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Is this... did he... <b>attempt</b></em>?” Linda asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No.” Moira shook her head, even though she knew Linda wouldn’t see it. “This is something else-he’s just... Linda, he was paralysed. Out of nowhere he just couldn’t move. It scared the fucking shit out of me.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>I’m sure it’s nothing.</em>” Linda said, not sounding so sure. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Do I worry more about that or his mental health issues?” Moira asked. “He’s clearly unwell both mentally and physically? Or maybe it’s just mentally. I don’t know anymore.” She paused. “Look, I’m sorry. You’re working. I don’t want to keep you. Go and look after your patients.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Alright</em>.” Linda said. “<em>I can talk after my shift, if that’s okay</em>?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What about your kids?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>They’re all old enough to be left alone. Except Sophie. But I’m sure they can look after her</em>.” Linda said. “<em>I’ll send a text to Euan. I’m sure he‘ll understand</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Alright.” Moira said. “I’ll see you later.” She hung up and held her phone in her hand as she stood up from the sofa and made her way upstairs to her brother’s room. Normally, she wouldn’t intrude on his privacy, but despite Malcolm being off hard drugs for over fifteen years, she was still worried he’d fall back into his old patterns. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>With her phone still in her hand, Moira sat down on her brother’s bed and looked around the room. It was nothing fancy, of course. Malcolm didn’t do fancy. He did normal. A wardrobe, a dresser, photos, a bedside table, a lamp, a guitar or two, a walking stick or two, and an urn for his daughter’s ashes. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Although he wouldn’t admit to it, Moira knew Malcolm could be a very sentimental man. She also knew he still had the toy Dalek that was given to him for Christmas 1965. And the blanket he was brought home from the hospital in after he’d spent a month in an incubator as a baby. And his BRIT Award was in full view. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Moira opened the draw to his bedside table and took out her brother’s suicide note, reading over it again and again and again. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm was in pain, that much was obvious. He didn’t know what was happening to him and he wanted it to stop, even if it meant taking his own life. The first time she read the note, Moira felt sick. However, it now saddened Moira, especially that she didn’t know the extent to which her brother had been suffering. And suffering in silence. And rather than the depression and addiction issues Malcolm had previously suffered with, it was clear that whatever was mentally ailing him was some kind of anxiety disorder. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>What was physically ailing him, however, was an entirely different subject. And one that as a secondary school English teacher, she was unqualified to answer. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>In her hand, her phone buzzed, distracting her from her thoughts. “Y-yes?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Mam, I need you to pick us up</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Elspeth.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Yeah</em>?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Where are you?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>School</em>.” Ellie replied. “<em>The fire alarm went off and we all had to evacuate. They’re saying we should go back, but</em>-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You should go back.” Moira said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Why</em>?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Your Uncle Malcolm’s been taken ill.” Moira said. “I can’t come and get you because I’m waiting for the hospital to call.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Has he got cancer again</em>?” Ellie asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No. Well, I can’t say for sure, but he probably doesn’t.” Moira said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Should I get the bus home</em>?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No, stay in school. Stay with your brother.” Moira said. “I’ll see you after school.” She hung up. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Moira looked around her brother’s bedroom and began to cry. She put her head in her hands as she sobbed, unable to stop the flow of tears that she’d mainly bottled up ever since Malcolm first went ill with cancer. It was just her, she’d been left to deal with this latest incident alone. She didn’t know whether Malcolm was going to live or die-just like she didn’t know when he had cancer, when he had sepsis, when his cancer came back, when his immune system was totally destroyed so he could have a stem cell transplant, every single day since when her gift to him could fail at any moment and when he wrote that suicide note. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>After a good while crying alone in her brother’s bedroom, the house phone started to ring. Still hiccuping and trying to catch her breath, Moira wiped her eyes and tried to stand up on her shaky legs. While she was still calming herself down, the phone stopped ringing and so she dragged herself downstairs. With shaky breaths, she managed to calm herself down. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The phone began to ring again and she rushed to answer it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Hello, this is St George’s Hospital calling, is this Moira McLeod</em>?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah. Yep. Yes.” Moira’s heart stopped and her blood ran cold. They were calling about her brother. “Yes.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>You are his emergency contact.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Is he dead?” Moira asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>No. No, he is alive</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Moira let out a sigh of relief. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>We can’t say much about his condition over the phone, but it’s important that you come down to the hospital as quickly as possible</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Okay.” Moira said quietly and hung up the phone. </p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
</div><div>
  <p>At the hospital, Moira blanked everything out. She was on autopilot. She didn’t remember going to the hospital, she didn’t remember the talks with the doctor, she didn’t even remember where she was. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>That was when she saw her brother, doped up on drugs but clearly still, if at least partially, conscious with a breathing tube down his throat-yet again-marking the third time she had to see him like this. But at least he wasn’t in a coma this time. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm’s gaze was drawn to his sister.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m here.” Moira said as she gently stroked his cheek, taking care to avoid the medical equipment. “It’s okay.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm simply blinked dopily in response. There was nothing he could say. He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, after all, he was sedated with a tube down his throat. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm.” Moira shook her head and wiped her eye. “What’s happened to you?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm blinked again, opening his eyes after a few seconds. The drugs were taking more of an effect. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Moira put her hand in Malcolm’s hair. It was growing back steadily and slowly after the chemotherapy took it all. It was short and relatively wispy. But it was her brother. And for all his faults and weaknesses-and near total lack of body hair-she still loved him. She wanted him; needed him to survive.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So this entire thing is told from Malcolm’s sister’s point of view. I just wanted to do something a bit different.<br/>Since Jamie’s death, Moira built up a relationship with Jamie’s widow, who she knew anyway from her friendship with Malcolm.<br/>As for the Dalek, that wasn’t necessarily a nod at Peter Capaldi’s role(s) in Doctor Who, they were literally the top selling Christmas toy in the UK in 1965. If you want to take it as a nod though, that’s awesome, go ahead, you do you.<br/>The incubator is a hundred year plus invention. It is not out of the realm of possibility that someone born sixty years ago would have been in one had they been born early. Parents were not allowed to visit back then though, it was thought to be bad for both the child and the parent-we know better now, of course.<br/>Why would Malcolm Tucker of all people have a BRIT Award?<br/>Yes, I do know what Malcolm’s physical illness is. I did plan the story after all. And no, it’s not donor rejection.<br/>Mentally, he is suffering with undiagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He had a very scary and traumatic experience when he was in a coma and throughout the rest of his stays in hospital. His ‘flashbacks’ come in the form of nightmares.<br/>And no, Ellie wasn’t allowed her phone at school, but as teenagers do, she brought it anyway.<br/></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Sam</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sam visits Malcolm in hospital.<br/>(Set around August 2016)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Of all the people who had to see Malcolm Tucker lying in a hospital bed with a tube down his throat for the third time, it had to be Sam. This time it wasn’t self inflicted. This time there was no cancer as it had gone into remission again. This time there was no coma. This time it was because he was near totally paralysed, unable to move anywhere or anything. </p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>Sam stood next to Malcolm’s bed, watching his chest rising and falling along with the rhythm of the machines keeping him alive for the third time. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm was under sedation; doped up on barbiturates, but still somewhat conscious. The doctors knew what was wrong with him. They were treating him. But it was mostly a matter of waiting for it to all be over. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm? It’s me. It’s Sam. I... you...” Sam sighed. She didn’t know what to say. “We have to stop meeting like this. You all sick and me all healthy.” She put her hand on Malcolm’s head and gently stroked his still-growing-out hair. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Now you’re paralysed. Are you just going to be in a wheelchair forever?” Sam asked. “I mean, I could handle that. Absolutely. I know you could too. You’re a strong person. You’ve lost your wife, your kid, your brother, your parents... You’ve battled addiction. You’ve fought cancer twice. And you practically ran the country for a decade-while having cancer. I need...” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sam took a shaky breath as she tried to compose herself. “I need you to fight this... whatever it is, I can’t pronounce it. I know you can.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She kept her hand on Malcolm’s head and continued stroking his hair with her thumb as she talked. “What’s going on in the news?” She said. “Well... I’m sure you’ve heard by now, Theresa May is the Prime Minister. And it’s all coming out that the Vote Leave campaign lied. Not that I’m sure you’ve heard. You probably saw through it when you voted Remain. And I know you voted Remain, Malcolm Alasdair Tucker, I know you too well to say that you voted Leave.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m scared, Malcolm.” Sam admitted. “I’m scared for our country. Scared for the Party. Scared for you. Scared for America. Scared for the future.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sam stood over Malcolm, watching over him for as long as she could. Careful not to disturb the medical equipment, she bent over to hug Malcolm and then kissed him on the forehead. “I love you, Malcolm Tucker. If you die, I’ll kill you.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sam walked out of the ICU doing her best to hold back the tears. Everything was on top of her and her closest friend in the world was, not dying, but really sick. Maybe he’d be paralysed for life. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm Tucker had done some very, <em>very</em> questionable things in his time in Government. <em>Extremely</em> questionable. Also she was pretty sure most of what he did was actually illegal. She was <em>definitely</em> certain all the perjury was illegal. And the blackmail. And Glenn’s assault. That <em>absolutely</em> fell under ABH. Leaking of government information. Was that illegal? Probably fell somewhere under a breach of the Data Protection Act at best. He was definitely guilty of intimidation and bullying-that was his primary tactic to get ministers, advisors, press officers, backbenchers and even the PM to follow the Party line. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And Sam had been aiding Malcolm in almost all of these offences. That made her a criminal too? Committing crime for her friend?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Despite all of this, Sam felt Malcolm’s cosmic punishment was disproportionate. A few months in jail would have sufficed. Two bouts of cancer, three mental breakdowns and a dangerous paralytic disease was way too much. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And so Sam worried about Malcolm. She worried about him as she walked outside the hospital and felt the warm summer air on her face. It was worth enjoying the summer for today, because it would probably be cool and/or raining the next day. But that was just British weather. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And that was just Malcolm Tucker. Her friend. He was worth worrying about. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>From Sam’s point of view. Mostly her thoughts and inner monologue.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Dan McLeod</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dan discusses moving out with Malcolm, threatening him.<br/>(Set in May 2017)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dan fiddled with his t-shirt nervously and walked into the living room, where Ellie was playing with Malcolm’s wheelchair, to Keir’s amusement, while Malcolm was sitting on the sofa reading a book. </p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>“Ellie, Keir, go to your rooms.” Dan said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But why?” Keir asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“We haven’t done anything.” Ellie said defensively.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I need to have a private conversation with your uncle Malcolm.” Dan said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“If you’re wondering why I’m still using the wheelchair, I am working on the physio-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I never see you do the exercises.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm slammed his book on the coffee table and glowered at Dan. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Dan ushered Ellie and Keir out of the room and sat down in the chair opposite Malcolm.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I do the exercises, alright?” Malcolm said. “You work for British Airways. You’re a pilot. Not a fucking physiotherapist.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’d better fucking had be doing the exercises.” Dan said. “Moira, my wife and <em>your</em> sister, she worships you. Even after your addiction problems. And after you were arrested for perjury-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“For the last time, I didnae do anything.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm. She would do anything for you. Three times she’s sat in the ICU and not moving from your bedside while you were out cold with a tube down your throat. She’s been with you to all of your chemotherapy appointments and all of your follow up cancer appointments. She loves you more than you love yourself.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Is this going anywhere?” Malcolm asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes it is, unlike your legs.” Dan said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That was fucking uncalled for!” Malcolm snapped. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Dan shook his head. “I don’t care, Malcolm. I really don’t.” He said. “I know how you feel about me. You don’t like me. Fine. I don’t like you either. I’m only putting up with you because I love Moira. If I weren’t a pilot, I would have insisted we moved out years ago. But I am and unlike my wife and kids, I don’t have to see your ugly fucking frog face every goddamn day. But I <em>do</em> live under your roof. I live here. But I don’t want to. And neither does Moira anymore.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Dan paused, waiting for Malcolm to say something, but he didn’t. “Moira has always adored you. <em>Idolised</em> you. She’s always been your biggest fan and I can’t for the life of me understand why the fuck that is. You need to tell her it’s okay for her to move on. She, me, we-our kids-we cannot stay living under your roof until we’re all geriatric. This is not going to become the Lambeth-Vauxhall District Care Home and Elspeth and Keir are not going to be our nurses.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I never-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Dan held up a finger. “No. <em>I’m</em> speaking.” He said defiantly. “I know Moira is in two minds about moving back to Glasgow, but it needs to be done. We need to exorcise you from our past and move on.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hey! I am <em>not</em> a demon!” Malcolm protested. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You are the Demon Spin Doctor of Downing Street, Malcolm Tucker.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You could have gone with Demon Journo of Fleet Street since I fucking worked there for six years.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m not being funny.” Dan snapped. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You didn’t mind me when I had the cancer.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You were in the hospital for months. Last time you were there for a year and a half. And you’ve just spent four months in hospital and rehab with that... weird disease thing I can’t pronounce.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Leukaemia?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Dan scoffed. “I can say <em>that</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Guillain-Barre?” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That’s the one.” Dan said. “Malcolm, why the fuck do you hate me?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I don’t hate you. I just think Moira can do better than a fucking pilot.” Malcolm said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Dan narrowed his eyes. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“A pilot named fucking <em>Dan</em>.” Malcolm stood up. “Now if you’ll excuse me-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>As Malcolm shuffled out of the room, or at least attempted to, Dan grabbed him by the wrist. “You’re a cunt, Malcolm Tucker.” He said. “Also don’t think I don’t I know about your suicide note-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Who the fuck told you about that?!” Malcolm hissed. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Moira.” Dan said. “Now. If you don’t tell her it’s okay to move to Glasgow, I will fucking leak it to the BBC.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m not in politics anymore-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I don’t fucking care.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm glared angrily at Dan. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I will do it. I promise.” Dan said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Fine.” Malcolm said. “Yes. Yes.“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Good.” Dan said, loosening his grip on Malcolm’s wrist.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m going to change my catheter now.” Malcolm said. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t dump my piss on your head.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Dan smirked angrily. “You do that and I leak it to the BBC <em>and</em> Sky.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Funny.” Malcolm said. “And you wonder why I hate you.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And here I thought it was because my da was Scottish and my ma was Ghanaian.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And here I thought you hated me because my ma was Scottish and my da was Irish. And Italian.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Dan frowned. He’d never heard anything from Moira about being <em>any</em> part Italian. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh yeah, Grandma Tucker was actually Grandma Rossi.” Malcolm said. “You didn’t know I was quarter Italian?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Moira never said anything about that.” Dan said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Truly, we are mongrels.” Malcolm said. “That makes Ellie and Keir Scottish, Irish, Italian and Ghanaian. But let’s not get distracted here.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“This is about how much I want you gone.” Dan said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No, this is about how much you want to be gone.” Malcolm said. “And I’m not against that because you are the most insufferable Dan I’ve ever met and I’m including Miller here. And I know you, Dan. I know you won’t leak my suicide note to the BBC. You wouldn’t do anything to hurt Moira-you don’t have the fucking balls.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm made his way out of the room and Dan sat down on the sofa with a grunt. He looked over at Malcolm’s wheelchair and kicked it across the other side of the room knowing full well that Malcolm wouldn’t listen to him. He would release the note to the BBC if he needed to. The note was sitting in his scanned documents in his laptop. Ready. And waiting. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Something from Moira’s husband’s point of view.<br/>If you’ve read any other TTOI story in this series, you know that it’s not a secret that Malcolm and his brother in law don’t exactly get on, but force themselves to be civil because they both care about Moira, Ellie and Keir. So this is just a closer look at their antagonistic relationship.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Ellie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ellie runs away from her home in Glasgow all the way to her uncle Malcolm’s in London.<br/>(Set in March 2020 during Grace)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p>Ellie was sitting on the train as it rolled along. She was starting to wonder whether she had done the right thing, but she was almost eighteen anyway. She was old enough to get a job, join the army and vote, in Scotland anyway, and she was definitely old enough to move out. That’s all she was doing. Moving out. Back to her uncle Malcolm’s place in Lambeth. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She wasn’t worried about the Coronavirus; she was young she probably wouldn’t get it anyway. But she knew her uncle Malcolm had been sick with cancer twice. She didn’t want to pass it to him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ellie looked out at the fields and the farms as she passed. Or rather she tried to. It was kind of dark outside, given that it was around seven am. She still had half of her journey left to make and then there was the navigating from Euston to Lambeth. And she had no idea where she was because she was train jumping; every time the train slowed to a stop, she hid from the conductor. And the cameras. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ellie was used to train jumping. She did it all the time from Glasgow to Edinburgh. She didn’t like doing it, but she did it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>So when she noticed the train slowing down, Ellie grabbed her backpack, containing the only things she’d brought with her, and ducked down low, heading for the toilets. Sure train toilets were scummy, full of needles and smelled really badly of piss and vomit-especially because it was an early morning train out of Glasgow-but it was really her only option. Because she did not have a hundred pounds to spend on a train ticket to London and she <em>definitely</em> did not have a thousand pounds to spend on a fine. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Locked in the toilet, with all the smells and sights of a train toilet, Ellie realised that she was tired. So rather than face the conductor, she decided to sit down on the toilet floor and go to sleep there. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>To try and take her mind off the fact that she was quite literally sitting in a puddle of piss, she took her iPod from her bag and put her earbuds in to listen to some music. Faced with a choice between Lewis Capaldi or BTS, she chose Lewis Capaldi as his songs were slower and gentler and were more likely to put her to sleep. </p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
</div><div>
  <p>Ellie awoke and the train was stationary. Wondering if she’d reached the end of the line, she picked up her backpack and stood up, opening the door ready to creep out. But she realised she wasn’t at Euston, she was at Milton Keynes. Still another half an hour or so out of London. As the train started rolling again, she went to sit down near a crowd of people who looked roughly her age. Probably older. And not all of them were white which was a good thing for her as she wasn’t either. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>One of them, a girl, looked over at her. “Hey.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ellie took out her earbuds. “Yeah?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You know you smell of piss, right?” She asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah, I-I slipped in the toilets.” Ellie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>One of the boys winced. “I’m sorry.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“How long have you been on the train?” Another girl asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh uh... I got on at Milton Keynes.” Ellie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Didn’t see you on the platform.” Another boy noted. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ve been trying to blend in.” Ellie said with a nod. “It went well until the, uh, the piss thing.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Why do you want to blend in?” The second girl asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I have my reasons.” Ellie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The second girl tutted. “You’re a beautiful black girl, you shouldn’t try and blend into white culture-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m Scottish.” Ellie said. “My culture is Scottish. And I’m trying to blend in with the Sassenachs.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh, do you play the bagpipes?” The third girl asked.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No, but my uncle plays the guitar.” Ellie replied. “I’m going to visit him actually.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh that’s cool.” The first girl said. “We’re just going for a shopping trip.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Almost at that point, the conductor came and Ellie shrank down in her seat. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Tickets from Milton Keynes.” He announced. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The group of five showed their tickets to the conductor, who then turned to Ellie. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I need to see your ticket.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“She’s with us.” The second boy said and produced another ticket from his wallet. “I held onto her ticket because she gets train sick really badly.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The conductor nodded and accepted the explanation and signed the ticket, but looked back at Ellie in distrust as he walked down the carriage. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Thank you.” Ellie said. “You’re not going to traffic me, are you?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No.” The third girl said. “Of course not! I’m Abi.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m Jess.” The first girl said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m Tim and that’s Darren.” The second boy said and pointed to the first boy. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And I’m Laura and that’s Pete.” The second girl said, pointing to the third boy who hadn’t said anything yet. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m Ellie.” She said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Now that you’ve told us your name, we’re going to traffic you, actually.” Abi said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What?!” Ellie asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Naw, I’m only teasing.” Abi chuckled. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“We’re just regular students.” Darren said. </p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
</div><div>
  <p>Ellie spent the next twenty minutes or so talking with the group, before they arrived on the platform and went their separate ways. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She checked her phone and saw dozens of missed calls from her mother, but she decided to press on with her plan anyway. She pulled her backpack up on her shoulder and walked down to the Euston Tube station. She knew she needed to buy a ticket to use the Tube, so she used the crumpled up plastic tenner in her jeans pocket for that. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>From here, she knew her way. Onto the Northern Line, past Warren Street, Goodge Street, Tottenham Court Road, Leicester Square, Charing Cross, Embankment and change at Waterloo onto the Bakerloo Line getting off the next stop at Lambeth North. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Once she got out of the Tube station, Ellie checked the time. She’d got into London at about ten past nine. It was now nearly an hour later. She knew she’d be walking to her uncle’s for a while too. Not like a huge amount of time, but enough. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She passed familiar sights and smelled familiar smells. She felt home for the first time in ages. She loved living in Lambeth-it was all she’d ever known. She hated Glasgow. She didn’t hate it, but it just didn’t feel like her home. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Eventually, Ellie came for a stop outside her uncle Malcolm’s house. She took a deep breath and knocked. Waited for an answer. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It took a minute, but her uncle Malcolm did come to the door. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Confusion crossed his face when he saw Ellie standing there. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ellie?” He asked. “What the <em>hell</em> are you doing here?” </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A little something from Malcolm’s niece’s point of view.<br/>Yes the age of majority in the UK is 16. You can do most things at 16 except buy cigarettes, buy alcohol from a shop and drive. You can vote at 16 in both Scotland and Wales.<br/>7am in March would still be kind of dark outside.<br/>I am not advocating train jumping.<br/>Train toilets are very nasty places. Like... soooo nasty.<br/>The cost of a train fare from Glasgow to London is £105 as of this month.<br/>The cost of a fine for train jumping is also £1000.<br/>I hate BTS.<br/>I love Lewis Capaldi.<br/>I’ve never brought it up before, but I do consider Ellie to be mixed race as I see Malcolm’s brother-in-law Dan (in my fics) as being half black, half white.<br/>The older teens giving Ellie a spare train ticket is based on something that happened to me I was going to pay for a ticket for myself from the conductor, when a kindly Irish family gave the conductor a spare ticket and said ‘she’s with us’.<br/>Lastly, yes; those are the succession of Tube stations you’ll pass if you want to get from Euston to Lambeth North.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Glenn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Glenn bumps into Malcolm and his nephew in Hyde Park and they have a catch up.<br/>(Set in August 2017)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had been a good few years since Glenn had seen Malcolm. It came as a surprise when he came across him in the wild of Hyde park alongside a preteen boy. And even more of a surprise when he realised that Malcolm was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and trainers and was in a wheelchair. </p><p></p><div>
  <p>“Malcolm Tucker, is that you?” Glenn asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You know full well it is me, Glenn.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I didn’t know you were a paraplegic.” Glenn gestured vaguely to the wheelchair. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m not.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Uncle Malcolm was sick last year and now he can’t move his legs that good.” The boy said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Who’s this?” Glenn asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“My nephew, Keir.” Malcolm said. “He’s twelve years old.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“So what kind of sickness makes you... you know... in that?” Glenn asked trying awkwardly not to say the word ‘wheelchair’. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm put his head in his hands. “It’s a wheelchair, Glenn, call it what it is.” He lifted his head. “And an autoimmune one.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What? Like lupus?” Glenn asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I don’t have lupus.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I didn’t say you did.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm raised an eyebrow and crossed his leg over the other. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>That small action surprised Glenn. In fact, it surprised him a lot. And he jumped backwards a little bit. “A-are you telling porkies, Malcolm?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“About what?” Malcolm asked, slightly aggressively. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You just moved your leg.” Glenn said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m not a paraplegic, Glenn.” Malcolm repeated. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Uncle Malcolm can walk, but he can’t do it for long.” Keir said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That’s right.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’ve trained your nephew to talk for you?” Glenn asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No.” Malcolm said. “He can speak for himself.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Can he really?” Glenn asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Keir nodded. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“See? He can.” Malcolm said. “So what’s it like at Whitehall these days?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I dunno, Malcolm, I quit a long time ago.” Glenn said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ah yeah, Liberal Democrat.” Malcolm said. “I forgot your party lost relevance.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Not as quickly as you lost relevance.” Glenn said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“My uncle is not irrelevant.” Keir snapped. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I am politically, Keir.” Malcolm said. “And that’s fine. Glenn here’s politically irrelevant too. If not more so because he never had political relevance to begin with.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Very funny, Malcolm.” Glenn said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You can’t say it isn’t true.” Malcolm said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“So what happened to you?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Nothing.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’re not dying?” Glenn asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No.” Malcolm said. “I am not dying.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“He’s not dying.” Keir said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That’s good to hear.” Glenn said. “Maybe we should catch up sometime.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“We can catch up now.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“My uncle doesn’t like you.” Keir said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No, Keir, Glenn’s an old friend.” Malcolm said. “Special emphasis on ‘old’.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Very funny.” Glenn said. “Very fucking funny.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hey! No swearing in front of my nephew! He’s only eleven!” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But you swear all the time-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Not in front of my nephew. Or my niece. Only incompetent politicians.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Good thing you and I aren’t in politics anymore.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm nodded. “You know what? Yeah. Let’s catch up. Gimme your phone.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Glenn took his phone from his pocket. “You’re not going to smash it or drop it and run it over with your... thing?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Wheelchair.” Malcolm said. “And no.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Apprehensively, Glenn handed his phone over. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm took his phone and typed something in before handing it back to Glenn. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That better not say ‘kill yourself’.” Glenn said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It’s just my phone number.” Malcolm said. “We really should catch up sometime.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh. Yes.” Glenn nodded. “Of course.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But not today.” Malcolm said. “I’m busy with my nephew. Come on, Keir.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Bye, Mr Glenn. It was nice meeting you.” Keir said cheerfully. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ll see you around, Glenn.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah. Bye.” Glenn watched as Malcolm and Keir left him standing alone on the path in Hyde Park. He hadn’t expected to see them. But it was a nice surprise that he had.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
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